Melody for a Moment
by Tubular Fox
Summary: They are trapped here.  This is the end of the line.    ...He wonders if the piano bench will take his weight, after all these years.


Here's a sad fic I wrote. I just had the need to write something short and sweet and pretty and sad, and this was the result. Oh, and the song Arthur plays can be found here at YouTube with the extension after the .com to be: /watch?v=XkhIVgRiHxg

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys or the song, I just have fun with them.

Without further ado, please enjoy!

* * *

In its day, the piano must have been something to see. He can imagine it, in a grand concert hall somewhere, gleaming in the low light, playing beautiful melodies for an avid audience. He can almost hear the sweet notes reverberating around the room, the ghost of a gentle sonata or perhaps a waltz.

Its paint is chipped now, its varnish no longer shining. It is out of tune. The keys are no longer ivory; instead they are aged, yellowing. The key cover isn't down; hasn't been down for years. One of the legs is rotting away, and the lid prop is starting to splinter.

And even amidst all of the chaos around him, Arthur can still feel his heart breaking as he looks upon it.

Despite all of his research, Arthur hasn't been able to find out why the house was abandoned. The family that owned it lived in a secluded area. They were recluses, and it is no doubt that the neighbors, such as they were, didn't even know the family was gone. The house was paid off, and there was no one to come poking around.

Only a lonely piano left behind.

There is another shot from outside, and Arthur can hear Eames curse. They are trapped in here, trapped in this faded, fourth-floor room. The job went badly, and they'd had to run when they woke. But for the life of him, Arthur can't remember how he got here.

He doesn't want to roll his totem, though. Not this time. This time, he thinks he'd rather not know.

Behind him, Eames has run out of ammo.

And Arthur knows this is it. This is the end of the line. For only a second, it bothers him. And then, incredibly, he finds he doesn't mind all that much. He is thirty-four, and has been on the run from different corporations out for his blood for almost fifteen years. He never thought it would end this way, but it doesn't really surprise him, now that it's going to.

He wonders if the piano bench will take his weight.

He can hear Eames searching the room for any kind of weapon, but Arthur knows it won't be any use. It is not that he is being pessimistic, or giving up, no. It is simply that he has already done it, and found nothing. There is nothing of use in this empty room.

Only the two of them, and a lonely piano.

He sits. Despite everything—the time, the damp, the decay—the piano bench is still sturdy. Arthur lifts a hand and brushes it along the keyboard, wiping away the dust of too many years, but never making a sound. The keys still shine, a little, a last effort at hope.

Eames has stopped searching.

They have been partners for a long time now, Arthur thinks. Ever since the Fischer job, Arthur has worked the details for many of Eames's heists, in the dreamscape or not. They do not bicker all that much, now. Not anymore, except when they want to. It is a comfortable, undefined feeling that has settled over them.

And after years of being in love, they are not together.

Arthur sets his hands gently into position on the keys.

The first few notes are soft, barely audible over the sound of the men outside, trying to get into the room. But Eames hears them, slow and smooth and soft, drifting through the air. And he smiles, because he knows there is nothing else he can do.

He can imagine Arthur in a grand concert hall somewhere, outlined in the low light, playing beautiful melodies for an avid audience.

Arthur keeps playing, never changing the volume of the music, even as the pounding on the door gets louder. It is a song Eames recognizes, a song like an old friend, and he laughs because out of everything Arthur could have chosen to play, he picked _this_ song, and the title is very ironic. He turns and at first only hums along, with a few phrases slipping out here and there as he does his best to remember the words to "Dream a Little Dream of Me."

The he silently crosses the room and lays his hands on top of Arthur's.

Together, they play. Eames's hands are warm, his weight solid against Arthur's back. Very slightly, Arthur leans into it, leans into Eames and everything Eames has silently offered to be for him over the years.

And Eames accepts him, even though it is much too late for any of that.

Arthur lets his left hand slip from the keys as Eames lifts his right and wraps it around Arthur's waist. Arthur lays his left hand over it, his right hand continuing to sing the beautiful, playful melody as Eames's left dances over the lower notes.

Together, they play, each one filling in what the other needs. The melody itself is not sad, and as they weave it through the air, they are not sad, either. They are with each other.

Trapped, doomed, but with each other.

"It's been a good run, hasn't it, darling?" Eames asks quietly, pressing his lips to the top of Arthur's head.

"It has," Arthur responds. "I would have changed the way that job in Russia turned out, but all in all, it was a very good run." He pauses, and half-smiles. "I would have kissed you that night, in Amsterdam. Do you remember?"

And Eames laughs against his hair.

They stay there for a long time, playing, arms wrapped around each other. They are remembering. Outside, the pounding is louder than ever, but they can't hear it. They can't hear the sound of splintering wood. All they can hear is each other.

"My first name is James," Eames says suddenly. "James Eames."

"James," Arthur says, and he is smiling softly. "I like it. My last name is DeLacey."

"Arthur DeLacey? Sounds French," Eames comments. "Are you French, darling?"

"My ancestors are. I'm from South Carolina, though. I have three sisters and a brother."

"Big family," Eames says, crouching down so he can press his cheek against Arthur's, but his hand stays on the keys. "I only have my Mum, back in Britain. She's a lovely lady."

"I'm sure," Arthur says, and he is. "I wish I could have met her."

He turns his head to the side and presses a kiss to the corner of Eames's mouth.

"My totem is a die that lands on a five in reality," Arthur tells him.

Eames turns his head and meets Arthur's lips with his.

"My totem is a silver lighter that doesn't strike," Eames tells him.

The lid prop breaks, the gunshot sound of it making Arthur jump. The piano slams shut, and the music stops.

Arthur reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out the small loaded die. Eames takes his lighter out of his jacket. Arthur tosses the die along the keys, its slight weight not enough to make anything but a _tick, tick, tick_ as it clicks over the breaks between them. Eames flips the top of the lighter open and thumbs the flint.

Once, twice—

The die stops rolling.

The door smashes open and the shots ring out.

"I love you," Arthur whispers, ignoring the flare of pain in his side.

"I love, you, too," Eames whispers back, heedless of the fire in his shoulder.

They pull each other close and smile.

And after a minute of eternity, everything is gone.

**-ooo-**

The room is cold, empty. Time has rushed in and filled the room with an eternal silence that has settled down over the washed-out walls and the stained woodwork like a blanket.

There is nothing in the room except for the grand piano.

The damp and the wear of the years has finally eaten through two of the legs. It lays tipped onto the floor; broken, but still proud. It is out of tune, and the paint has chipped off. The varnish is dull, and the keys are no longer ivory, but a sad yellow covered in dust.

The key cover isn't down. Hasn't been down in years.

If one were to enter the room, they would almost be able to picture it: in a grand concert hall somewhere, two men leaning against each other in the low light, playing beautiful melodies for an avid audience. They would almost be able to hear the sweet notes reverberating around the room, the ghost of a romance from long before.

But when they open their eyes, they would see nothing but a lonely, broken piano in a faded room, a tarnished silver lighter, and a dusty red die lost to the ages.

* * *

Sad and sweet, yes? I hope you liked it! Feedback? :)


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